Diamonds Are Forever
by kinatheokay
Summary: It's been a few years since Zig Novak has seen Maya Matlin, but with the constant media coverage of her engagement to Miles Hollingsworth, it's hard for him to not know what she's up to these days. Although it seems like everything has changed, when the two meet again, will it be like nothing really has at all?
1. Chapter 1

The news is plastered everywhere, from the morning talk show interviews of them discussing decorations and sampling cakes, to the newspaper covers and magazine articles gossiping over what dress she will wear, who his best man will be, where the honeymoon will take place, how long it will take for a baby to follow. I can't turn a corner without seeing something about her bridal party or hearing something about his bachelor party. Since Mayor Hollingsworth's reputation went belly-up from an international money-laundering scandal partnered with the reports of long-standing abuse from his children, his family has become the Kardashians of Toronto—maybe even all of Canada. I wouldn't call them _famous_, but that doesn't mean I haven't been waiting for them to get their own network TV show and a merchandising line.

"Why are you always watching that crap?"

I look away from a women's talk show featuring Maya Matlin and her opinions on bouquets and turn to Damon, who's standing in the threshold with a bowl of cereal.

"All they do is gossip about the girly stuff and that dumb wedding." He takes a spoonful and adds with his mouth full, "It's crap."

"Right, 'cause the shit you watch is so much better?" I raise my eyebrows, "I can _literally_ feel myself losing IQ points every time you put on that show with the duck guys." I used to feel obligated to show my utmost gratitude for Damon since I've been living on his parents' couch four nearly two and a half years, but there's no real point to it anymore. We're both deadbeats, and we've seen each other through too much. Conventional respect just gets so fake after a while.

Besides, he's amused when I tease him. "That's my parents' show. I don't even know how it's still on the air," He laughs, crossing the living room to plop down next to me, masterfully managing to not spill a drop of milk. "It's just a bunch of guys with beards doing redneck things. I don't get it, either."

"Liar. You're just as into it as they are."

"Yeah, well, you're into this…whatever it is." He gestures to the TV with his spoon. On it, Maya's showcasing the ring on her finger and the middle-aged hosts of the show are ogling it even though it's been mainlined into the media since the engagement was first broadcast via Miles Hollingsworth's Twitter. They'd been high school sweethearts, on-and-off for a while but going steady for about five years now, but last Valentine's day he took her to Italy and had a skywriter spell out "Maya, Will You Marry Me?" overhead and got down on one knee during their gondola ride. The ring is pear-cut, 3.8 carats. Cartier, I believe. With smaller diamonds wrapping all the way around the band. It's too bulky for her delicate fingers, if you ask me. Looks like it's weighing her whole hand down, but everyone and their mother seems over the moon with it, so I guess I just have poor taste.

I shake my head. "I'm not _into_ it, just…"

"Into _her_?"

I roll my eyes. "Shut up."

He laughs, "Hey, you dodged a bullet. There's no way you could have afforded anything like that. That ring's gotta be three months' rent, at least."

"I didn't think that kind of stuff was important to her." I shrug.

"Of course it is. She's one of those princess-type girls. They're all into that." He dips into his cereal, chewing, "They don't care about a good, hard-working guy unless he's got enough to pay for all of the sparkles they want. It's fucked up."

Pinching my lips, I sink into the couch. "…But she was never like that…"

"What, when we were all fourteen?" He quirks an eyebrow in my direction, "Yeah, because she didn't think she could _get_ anyone like that. She had messy hair and no tits. Now look at her." I didn't want to agree with this, but her hair was definitely sleeker than it used to be, shimmering in shades of highlighted blonde and always well-styled to the trends. And her breasts were…noticeably fuller.

Still, I sigh. "Nah, I think she just changed."

"I think you're just kidding yourself," He laughs, "You've always been into those diva types."

"Have not," I roll my eyes, pushing myself up from the couch and grabbing my work jacket from its corner.

"Oh no?" He leans back to eye me. "Care to remind me how you landed that job of yours again?"

Passing by, I give his head a shove and he laughs as I make my way out of the door. I'm not necessarily proud of my job, nor how I got it in the first place, but it pays the bills—well, the fraction of the bills that Damon's parents hold me accountable for. Originally, they didn't ask either of us to pay for anything and told us to save up enough to get our own place, but money is tight and it's not cheap to house and feed two adult men, so we contribute these days. It's understandable, but it's also slowed down the process. Still, I could have it worse; while Damon works a double shift at Little Miss Steaks, one as a server and another as a busboy, I earn my "living" as a stagehand at a local TV station. It's mostly used for shooting commercials and amateur videos paid for by people who save up months of paychecks to afford professional filming, but there are also a few decent shows that get shot there. My job is to move sets and props, organize costume racks, make coffee runs…I'm basically the producers' bitch and I do whatever doesn't require proper certification or training, from making off-camera sound effects during tapings to giving backrubs to tense actors who had a few too many to drink the night before, but it's mostly heavy lifting, labor work, and tedious jobs that no one else wants to do. It's not glamorous, but it's just above minimum wage, so I'll take it. It's not like many other jobs are dying to hire a 21-year-old guy with no college experience and a record for gang-related criminal activity.

I slip in through the back entrance of the parking lot since I already know the front is occupied by more important members of the studio team and that, for an unnecessary charge, the valet would take my bike here anyway. Besides, the directors always complain when I drive too close to the building, since I've got a Harley that's older than I am and it sounds like one. They always tell me that the growling of my engine "ruined the shots", even though the studio is supposed to be soundproof, but I try to keep as far away from the entrance as possible anyway.

Shivering off weather as I slip through the doorway, I slide my ID card through the time-clock and punch in my number before making my way onto the floor. Instantly, I'm needed. "Zig, fetch Zoe a hot apple chai, she's got a big scene coming up and her throat's sore."

Zoe Rivas was a teenage TV star on a show called West Drive until she got booted for her party girl habits, namely pill popping. For years, she didn't get any other gigs, so she took on acting like a normal girl in high school (which wasn't her best performance). During her senior year, she decided to make a YouTube channel where she posted short scenes of herself, and the fanbase she'd thought had forgotten her totally ate it up. By graduation, she'd been recruited by a TV station for a major role in a new teen show, and she's been working there ever since. She found me in the drive-thru window at a burger joint and felt bad that I'd been "reduced to food service", so she scored me this job, even though we weren't on the best of terms at the time. We're honestly very unlikely friends—hell, it was unlikely that we were involved at all. However, we were both grateful for our paths crossing when they did, and over time, a sort of attraction blossomed between us. It spanned a few months from the end of tenth grade to the beginning of eleventh, and it wasn't the healthiest of relationships, but it was a nice way to pass the time until Zoe came to realize that I was still harboring feelings for another girl—and had a pretty good idea just who that girl was, too.

"Did you watch channel 7 today?" She sneers as I round the corner with her drink—a very specific blend of apple cider, lemon juice, honey, spices, and a few shots of apple cider vinegar to soothe the throat—taking the foam cup and looking up at me through her false eyelashes.

I recoil my eye contact and cross the floor.

Her smug voice follows me, "Which flower did you think looked better with that _rock_? The peonies or the gardenias?"

I refuse to discuss this and instead grab poster board to write up today's cue cards.

"Did you hear what she was saying about refusing to use roses or carnations because 'everyone else does it'? Like can you believe the nerve of that girl?" She's ranting between sips and her voice sounds fine, leading me to believe that she didn't actually have a sore throat, she just wanted me in here to vent to. "Just because you're riding the high of your little Prince and the Pauper story doesn't make you so _special._" She huffs, murmuring into the mouth of her cup, "Too good for traditional wedding flowers. What a joke."

"She's never liked them," I add casually, spreading the paper and markers on the floor and walking back to Zoe's vanity station. "I mean she _likes_ them but she thinks there are better options."

She shoots me a look before snarling against the cup lid. "Like what, _dare_ I ask?"

Irises. They're her favorite. She liked the weird shapes of the drooping petals, the blooms of different colors. She told me that she grew to love them because her family's had bulbs of them planted in a little garden outside their front door for as long as she can remember, and whenever they came up it meant that warmer weather was right around the corner, so seeing them brought a warmth to her.

But it's pathetic that I remember this so I shake my head as I swipe Zoe's copy of the script from the countertop. "I don't know. I don't know flowers."

She eyes me skeptically, but she doesn't question it. Just resumes sipping her apple chai and spinning her chair around to face me as I settle on the floor to start writing lines in big block letters. "You know, he was my boyfriend first."

"I know."

"She _stole_ him."

"I know."

"It's not even that I still want him, he's an ass, but she's somehow become the sweetheart of Toronto, meanwhile, she only ever started dating him because she _stole_ him out from under me."

"I know."

"She's a bitch."

"Yup."

"Like she's a _bitch_! She doesn't deserve _any_ of this—she didn't even work for any of it! All she did was date him and now _everyone_ loves her."

"I know."

There's a small pause, and I can feel the air grow tense within it. "…Yeah. You know more than anyone about _that part_, don't you."

My chest sinks slightly. I think to look up at her, to narrow my eyes and bite back in retaliation, but there's nothing for me to retaliate with. She's not exactly wrong.

She takes my silence as a confirmation and scoffs, turning her seat back around. "It's just not fair. Some of us have to work our butts off to even get noticed—hell, you work yours off and you're not even noticed by anyone—"

"Gee, thanks, pal."

"—But all she has to do is sit there and look pretty and marry the son of a mayor that turned out to be totally corrupt…and somehow that makes her a role model? I don't get it. If Canada was in such dire need of its own Kate Middleton, couldn't they have picked someone who was at least _credible_ for something?"

"Hey, you're so fond of those Kardashian girls, and they didn't do jack to get famous."

"They did more than Maya's doing—and they did more _with_ their fame, too. What's she accomplished since she got all of this limelight, huh? Other than plans for this stupid wedding and a few gigs playing cello for celebrities, what good has she brought to the world?"

"Zo, I don't think it's her job to improve the world—"

"Her _job_?" She laughed, "That's rich. She doesn't even _have_ a job. She's never worked a day in her life. Miles's family just pays for her existence. She's useless."

"Harsh."

"It's true!"

"Okay, Zoe."

"Sorry that you're still not over her, but—"

"I said_ okay, Zoe._"

Her eyes throw poison darts in my direction, and this time I fire them right back. She narrows her gaze for a moment before setting down her cup and rising from her chair. "I need a smoke break." She doesn't even smoke. She just calls it that when she needs to go outside to blow off some steam.

"Just be back by nine."

"Eat me."

"Not in my job description."

She throws her middle finger up before storming out of the door. I watch her silhouette disappear before returning to my cards. I know in a few minutes I'll go out to talk to her, let her blow up about how unfair it is that she's been working since childhood to support her whole family but all Maya had to do was get proposed to by Zoe's ex and now she's more famous than Zoe may ever be, and how it's not fair, and how she doesn't deserve any of it, the same speeches rehashed with far more tears. I'll hug her, and tell her how talented she is, and how she'll get every bit of recognition she deserves, and eventually convince her to go back into the studio and reapply the makeup she's cried off. It's not happened at least once a week since the proposal. It's not my job to keep Zoe sane, but I'm okay with doing it. I can't explain why Maya's fame digs into Zoe as much as it does, but I get it, and I think she knows that I'm one of the only people that truly does, so I can't complain about her constantly ripping about it. There's a sour sort of safety in knowing that someone else is as bitter about something as you are, especially when it feels so irrational.

* * *

**I know I just started another Zaya fic but I got some serious muse for this prompt and aboslutely needed to flesh it out. Hope you guys like it!**

**xo, Kina**


	2. Chapter 2

Had I listened to an actual radio station on my way to work, I might have known that the morning traffic reports foreboded nearly bumper-to-bumper traffic on my typical route—not that much was really audible past the din of my bike engine. The radio was more of a luxury, usually for traces of background music that I'll hear in and out. With the constant pauses in driving, though, all I could catch was the familiar cadence of Maya's voice alternating with the DJ's interview questions. I couldn't make out what either of them was saying most of the time, though it wasn't hard to guess since all anyone ever asked her about anymore was the wedding, I stayed tuned in until I rolled into the studio parking lot nearly an hour late.

I can already hear Zoe screaming by the time I reach the front door. "And none of us were even consulted about this! You just approved it without going to anyone!"

"The employees were alerted shortly after it was established, Zoe," One of the studio managers replied in a tired tone. "There was no reason for you to be 'consulted'. You work at this studio, not for it."

I skip the time clock since I know it won't let me punch in if I'm in ten minutes past my assigned shift. "What's going on?"

Both of them look at me. The manager eyes me with aggravation but I get the feeling I'm not the one it's directed toward. "You're late, that's what's going on."

"Yeah, traffic was insane," I jerk a thumb towards the doorway, "I didn't know it was that bad until I was out on the road."

Zoe crosses her arms over her chest, "Well, _perhaps_ if we'd been _informed _of the _special guest_ we'll be seeing here today, we would have _all_ prepared to come a little _earlier _and_ beat_ that."

My forehead creases, "Wait, what?"

She just raises an eyebrow and tilts her head towards the manager, a sharp simmer in her gaze. He looks to her and sighs, closing his eyes momentarily and opening them in my direction. "There was an overnight booking."

I nod, "Okay…?"

Zoe scoffs in anticipation and he looks from her to the ceiling, probably trying to figure out how to word this so it wouldn't piss her off anymore than it already had. "…Apparently…there was a last-minute need for a new commercial taping spot for Maya Matlin."

My eyes widen, "Wait, _what_?"

In my peripheral vision I can see Zoe glaring at me as the manager explains, and I gather the gist of it; Maya was launching a charity organization for school music programs and would be holding a public "bachelorette party" to kick off its funding, and she needed a set to shoot her commercial since something apparently went wrong with the previous place she'd booked. However, my thoughts are lost in transit, hanging midair between the nostalgic fluttering feeling I got in my stomach when I used to see her and the shock of nerves that came with the idea of seeing her now, slamming into my ribcage like a battering ram.

I think I cut the guy off when I blurted out, "Wait, so she's coming _here_?"

He nodded, "She's due within the hour."

I could feel my mouth fall open. "Today?"

"Yeah," His brows stitched together, "That's why the streets were so backed up. Word got out that she'd be here and now everyone's trying to come in."

My gaze falls to the floor. Some warning would have been nice. She'll probably be wearing one of her recent outfits, expensive and stylish and clean, with her hair fresh and her nails manicured, and here I am without a shower in a tank top I've had since high school. In a moment, I'm surveying everything wrong with my appearance, from the helmet indents in the same haircut I've had since I was 15 right down to the paint stains on the worn-down soles of my Doc Martens. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how much of a loser I've become and just how visibly it radiates from me.

The manager chimes in to bring me back, "…Is there a problem?"

Zoe clicks her tongue, "See, if you would have _talked_ to us first, you'd know this. Zig and Maya used to date."

"We didn't _date_. We were just…" Friends—best friends, she'd always said—for years, housemates for a while, and an emotional game of cat and mouse until she got tired of playing and left me for a better guy, but I'm still hopelessly not over it even though the only extent of our _big romance_ was kissing a few times. "…Involved."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You were involved with Maya Matlin."

"I know, it's hard to believe."

"It's _very_ hard to believe."

"We're not lying," Zoe piped up, "Seriously. They went back and forth for years. That's why _we_ broke up. Zig's had _two_ girls dump him because of her—"

"Thank you so much, Zoe—"

"Look," Raising his hands, the man shook his head, "I'm sorry that this may be uncomfortable for the two of you given…whatever circumstances these are, but I expect you'll both be professional for the next few days while she's here. Her opinion is very highly-regarded and we can't have this place get a bad review because you two reverted back to high school."

Zoe rolls her eyes. "This is ridiculous."

"And while I'm sorry that you feel that way, you just have to deal with it." He shrugs, "This is show business. Sometimes you have to work alongside people you aren't fond of. We can't just call her up and say 'hi, yes Miss Matlin, we're cancelling your session because Zoe Rivas thinks it's ridiculous'."

She's firm in her stance, arms folded and eyes permanently rolled away from him. He looks to me and I manage enough of a neutral smile to make him feel comfortable with simply nodding and stepping away. When he does, I turn to Zoe.

"How about we get you to makeup?"

"I already went to makeup. The bitch doesn't know how to contour so you can't tell."

"Then how about we go to your chair and you can fix it yourself?"

"So she has her own _charity _now. What a damn _peach_." Her lips are pursed in agitation, her nails sinking into her palms. "You know, if I was dating a millionaire, I'd be able to start up my own charity organization, too."

"I'm sure you could."

"And I'd make it for a better cause than school music programs, too. There are kids who can't even afford to go to school, you know. They're not benefitting from that."

"I suppose they aren't."

"And then I'd be the one causing traffic jams on my way to my own commercial."

"I can see that."

"What are they dying to see, anyway? Her walk out of a car and into a building?" She throws her hands in the air, "It's not like she _does_ anything! Why is everyone so obsessed with her?"

"I don't know—"

"No, you're not able to answer that because you were the _original_ Maya Matlin fanatic. You were obsessed with her when there was even_ less _to obsess over."

"Why is it that when you go off about her, I always get caught in the crossfire?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm just mad."

"Really? Mad? _You_?" I shake my head, pressing my lips together. "That's so out of character. No way."

Rolling her eyes, she gives my shoulder a shove. "I hate you."

"You love me."

"Even you have to admit that this is stupid, right?" She shakes her head, sinking back on the heels of the slippers she wears between costume changes. "She has this insurmountable level of fame just because she's engaged to some guy whose dad had a high-profile court hearing so now she's using her 'status' to do charity work. Like how stupid is that? Who really cares about getting benefitted by the fiancé of a guy with a criminal for a father?"

"Weren't you just complaining about her not doing anything with her fame a few days ago?"

"I didn't mean like this!"

"You were saying how she wasn't 'benefitting the world' or whatever."

"That doesn't mean I actually _wanted_ her to!" She frowns, so her eyebrows go down to compensate for it. "She just gets everything handed to her so now she's making herself look all _grateful_ by doing this. It's not fair. She didn't have to do anything to get where she is. You know they cleared out one of the offices so she'd have her own dressing room today? I work here for three years and all I get is a desk with a light-up mirror and a folding barrier to change behind, but she books a stupid commercial for a stupid charity she just pulled out of her ass and they're moving mountains for her!"

"Maybe they figure she won't be comfortable changing in front of a bunch of strangers?" I offer, "You know everyone here—plus you've been acting for years, you've kind of gotten desensitized to getting dressed out in the open because that's just how it is. She's not an actress—"

"She's not an _anything_—"

"—So they probably want to make sure she's as comfortable as possible working here."

"When amateurs come in to film, they don't give _them_ special treatment to ensure their _comfort_."

"Well that's…different."

"Why? Because they're not rich future trophy wives?" She cocks a brow.

I can't even argue with that, so I don't.

She shakes her head, "This is all so stupid. My nerves are shot for the day. I don't know how they expect me to work now."

"Just take a few minutes to breathe. Maybe go get some fresh air. I can make you some coffee or tea if you like?"

"I think I'd need something a little harder than coffee or tea."

"You know drinking on the job is prohibited."

"Well, right now I don't particularly care what's _prohibited_." She takes on this smile that's more chilling than reassuring. "If they can just throw me into these conditions and still expect me to perform, then they'll have to deal with how I choose to do that."

"I really doubt they were thinking you'd be bothered by it—"

"They weren't _thinking_ at all. If they were, they would have _thought_ to consider everyone at the studio, not just themselves." She pinches her lips and tips her chin up slightly. "You wouldn't happen to have anything on you that I might like, would you?"

"I don't bring alcohol to work. I'm not exactly dying to get fired."

"Not alcohol, you idiot. Anything like…you know," She smiles a bit, "What you used to sell."

"Ah…" I scratch the back of my neck, "No, I don't deal anymore—at least, not that stuff. I'm trying to keep my involvement with those guys to a minimum."

"Bull. I know you still talk to Tiny."

"Tiny's been weening off of them, too." I shrug, "Or trying to, at least. I don't know, they kind of just stopped messing with us after a while. I guess they got tired of hearing that we were busy working."

"Okay, so what _do_ you deal, then?"

"…Well, Damon and I grow some weed in his bedroom window, but it's not a whole lot and it takes a while—"

"Do you have some on you?"

"Again. Not looking to get fired."

"You're so useless, I swear."

"What, because I didn't know today would be 'score Zoe some drugs day'?"

"No, because I'm over here telling you about how painfully sober I am, and you're not helping me fix it in any way."

"It's not part of my job to get you wasted."

"Then don't think of it as part of your job. Think of it as part of being a friend."

I shake my head, pressing my fingertips into my temples.

"Come on, Zig. I'm not looking for much. Just something to take the edge off."

I groan, "This is so _very much_ against my better judgment. And it's totally unprofessional, you know that? You're supposed to be a serious actress, Zo, I can't believe you're making me do this for you."

"So you'll do it?" She beams.

I point a finger at her. "I'll get you _one_ bottle of alcohol. A small one. No pot, no drugs. If we're gonna do something illegal let's make sure it's not _completely_ illegal."

She reaches in to hug me briefly, "You're the best."

"You owe me," I wag my finger, walking backwards towards the door. "_Seriously_ owe me. Like almost-cost-me-my-job-so-here's-a-huge-favor kind of owe me."

"Whatever, just be back before taping." She laughs.

"Cover for me if I don't. Traffic's a son of a bi—" I'm cut off by colliding with another, smaller body, instantly turning around to grab the person's arm and make sure I hadn't knocked anyone down too bad.

The second I do, my eyes widen.

She hasn't grown an inch since the last time I saw her, even though the wedges on her shoes try to make me think otherwise, but I'm not fooled for a second. She's donning a blue floral dress and navy blazer with sapphire jewelry that could probably pay off my motorcycle, and though her visage is made up and her teeth are whitened and even her contacts add some artificial depth to her eyes, her face is just as I remember it.

My heart slams into my sternum as her gaze reaches mine and I can quite literally see her features soften with reminiscence. Her bright blonde curls, held back partially by a small braid, bounce as she reaches in to hold my upper arms, not quite in a hug but still a welcoming embrace. "Oh my gosh, Zig Novak!" There's always something so different about her voice on television or radio, like a manufactured version of her actual tone. Fake, even. Amplified by the sound mixers to keep up her flawless image. But hearing her now…it was the same voice I knew all those years ago.

My cheeks are burning, but still I smile. "Hey, Maya."

She's practically grinning. I have to tell myself that she's no more eager than she would be seeing any other old pal because I can feel my hopes raising the more I drink in her face, familiar behind all of its new embellishments. "Wow, it's been forever, hasn't it?"

I nod. "About three years."

"Damn." She shakes her head, letting out a small breath of a laugh. "Well, they've certainly been good years to you! Just look at you!" She gives my biceps a light squeeze through the sleeves of my leather jacket.

Shrugging, I chuckle. "Eh, thank you, but I don't think I look all that different."

"I think you're wrong." She smiles, and she lingers on it for a moment. There's a beat, and in it I can feel my pulse pausing, waiting for her next move. It's like I'm hanging on her breathing, expecting something but not knowing what. Just knowing that I felt an anticlimactic release in my chest when she lets go of my arms and turns away. "Zoe Rivas, is that you!"

Zoe's reactionary smile is so sweet that it's sour. "_Maya Matlin_, is that _you_!" The two walk towards each other and hug and chatter like Zoe wasn't just bashing Maya hardly a minute ago. It's then that I feel my bloodflow resume and feel the full force of how my nerve endings have turned to live wires, sending sparks beneath my skin. It's almost creepy the way I watch her making small talk, studying her mannerisms, trying to decide if I'm still fluent in her body language. There's a fabricated professionalism to the way she speaks and laughs and moves, but there's only so much she can really feign. She's so much less of a memory in person and so much more of the Maya I remember. My Maya.

Every so often I catch her looking my way. I can't tell if it's because they're talking about me, because she senses my staring, or just because she wants to. I just know that I haven't been able to take my eyes off of her since she's stepped into the room and collided with me. Eventually, Zoe catches on to the tennis match of eye contact and waves in my direction. "Don't you have something to _do_, Zig?"

I have to blink a bit to refocus my line of vision, sending it her way with a smirk. "Right. Your dirty work."

"Dirty work?" Maya echoes, "I don't talk to you guys in a couple of years and now there's 'dirty work' to be done?"

I chuckle, combing my fingers through the front of my hair. I can't tell if it's greasier than usual or if I'm just afraid of her thinking so. "Zoe likes to live life on the edge sometimes and has decided if she's going down, I'm going right with her."

"Please. If we got caught, you'd be an accomplice at most."

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on here," Maya laughs, looking between the two of us, "Should I be afraid? Are you two, like…up to something?"

I nod, "Zoe killed a girl who was gonna get a part on the show. We have to hide the body now."

Maya nods, stifling a laugh to play along. "Oh. Wow. Okay. Need any help?"

"Yeah, actually, do you have any room in your limo to transport it? I've just got my bike and carrying a body bag on that thing would just be _really_ obvious."

"I actually don't have a limo, but my car's got a pretty big trunk. I'm sure I could fit some little actress girl—plus, no one would suspect me."

I laugh, "True. Very true. We'd appreciate it."

"No problem." She flashes a smile in my direction. My heart is going to stop at this rate.

Zoe, however, has switched her bittersweet façade to a strictly bitter one, pointing missiles in my direction with her eyes. "Okay, this is funny and all, but Zig, you _do_ have a job to do."

I nod, sighing. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be back. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, okay, girls?"

"No promises." Maya raises her eyebrows. My smile is so stupid-looking, I can feel it.

Zoe shoots me a dry laugh. "Yeah. _No promises_." She reaches back out to touch Maya's shoulder and turns her to walk through the set, and I go to fetch the alcohol with an underlying fear that my joke about Zoe killing a girl may become true in my absence.

* * *

**My apologies for having a chapter this long without having all that much _action_ in it, but I'm enjoying all of this buildup way too much. Anyways, thank you so much to everyone who's reading, favoriting, and reviewing! You guys make me so happy to be back in the fanfic-writing business and it just prompts me to keep it going. I love you all and I hope you like this story so far!**

**xo, Kina**


	3. Chapter 3

Bumper-to-bumper traffic is so much worse when you're on a motorcycle than when you're in a car, especially when you spend your time stuck between a soccer mom's mini van of kids and some douchebag constantly honking about being late for work…thinking about how much better your reunion with your favorite old flame could have been. Between each half-inch my bike scoots forward in the mass of vehicles, I re-watch the interactions in slow motion, a play-by-play of what went down and how much better I could have made it; when she went in to touch my arms I could have converted it to a hug, when she told me I looked good I could have returned the compliment…I was so caught up in trying to play it cool that I probably came off as downright _cold._ I didn't even tell her why I was stepping out—granted, it was for something I shouldn't be doing, anyway, but starting off a rekindling with secrets was not a promising way to do it and I knew that. I just didn't think of it at the time.

As much as I tell myself that I should be more worried about the fifty milliliters of Cognac buried deep in my backpack than the opinions of an engaged girl I _almost_ dated in high school, I find myself much less concerned about the alcohol and the job rules and my punctuality and what Zoe will no doubt have to say and far more concentrated on how I'll carry myself when I return. I'm too built up on the high of seeing Maya again to stress over how pathetic I'm being (but I know that I am, in fact, being _pathetic_).

Zoe is already by the door when I slip back into the studio, still clad in her robe and slippers, arms tightly folded over her chest as she watches our coworkers assemble props by one of the green screens. "Why aren't you in costume?"

Her eyes narrow further. "Some of the other actors volunteered to be extras in this stupid commercial so they're postponing our shooting."

My brows furrow. "Well that hardly seems fair to you."

"It's not fair at all. For all they know, I have plans after this that can't be kept _waiting_."

"You should tell them you do."

"I might." Her eyes float across the room and I follow them, surprisingly not expecting such a bitter stare to be aimed at the very same blonde girl she used it for earlier. Maya's entrance was vastly different this time around, though, her somewhat conservative outfit traded for a black sequin dress that clung mid-thigh and a pair of fishnet stockings. Her hair had been straightened and teased so that it came to a bump at the crown of her head, cloaked with the sheer white veil that cascaded from her rhinestone tiara. Her eyes were now rimmed with smoky black and her lips glossed hot pink to match the "Bride-To-Be" sash hanging loosely around her slender frame—the same pink as the stiletto pumps she was carrying in her hand as she padded onto the set, probably too high for her to actually walk in. I smirk a bit. It's a comfort knowing that some things haven't changed.

Zoe's elbow jabs into my ribcage. "Kindly scrape your jaw up off the floor before you start drooling, please."

The apples of my cheek singe. "I'm not gonna drool."

"I couldn't blame you if you did, really," She cocks her head slightly askew to study the other girl, "She looks like a tramp."

"It's supposed to be a bachelorette party outfit."

"It's _supposed_ to make her look like a slut to tap into the suppressed teenage hormones of simple-minded boys like you so that you'll spend more money on her stupid charity. You guys won't notice that you're throwing away your hard-earned cash to contribute to the perfect image of a girl who does no work at all because your fantasies about what little she's leaving to the imagination are running rampant below your belts."

"And once again I am burned in Zoe Rivas's roast of Maya Matlin."

She rolls her eyes. "Did you bring the booze?"

"I didn't bring much, like I said."

"I don't care," She faces me, holding a hand out, "Hand it over."

I cock an eyebrow, "Just out in the open? Are you crazy?"

Initially, her upturned death glare aims to take me prisoner, but I watch it melt into a more devious expression, signature for her scheme-devising. "You're right. We should go somewhere more…private, shouldn't we?"

Immediately, I know what she's up to. "Zoe, no—"

"Why not?" Her sly smile falters, "Because you're afraid your little girlfriend might hear us?"

I shake my head, "It has nothing to do with her—"

"Yes it does. Don't lie to me." She raises her eyebrows, "It has everything to do with her. You're more than willing whenever she's not around. So, what, now that she's in the room, I'm second fiddle?"

When she puts it like that, I can't help but feel guilty. "No, Zoe, it's not like that, just…"

"…Just…you think that, with her here, you might actually have a chance again." Her sarcasm is piercing.

I can feel my mouth get dry as any valid arguments escape it.

With that silence, she claims a victory, grabbing for the opening of my jacket and nodding behind me. "No one's touched the storage room all day. We should be safe in there." Since I can't think of a solid excuse not to, I go with her.

This isn't the first time she's pursued me physically. In fact, it's been an ongoing thing, ironically beginning well after we'd broken up. When we were dating, it hadn't been long since Zoe had a court hearing against two boys who had sexually assaulted her at a house party, so she was still understandably traumatized. As much as she tried to move on from it seamlessly, there were still open wounds, and at first, she tried to ignore them and give me what she thought I needed to stay with her. However, especially with knowing what she'd been through, I wasn't about to pressure her into doing anything she wasn't ready for (not to mention the fact that I was still a virgin at the time, so, despite being as eager for sex as any typical teenage boy would be, it wasn't like I felt the real impact of celibacy since it was the only sexual practice I'd known). Don't get me wrong, what she was ready to do, we did, but anytime she seemed hesitant or downright uncomfortable, I let her know that it was okay to hold off. She was more important than sex. She still is.

About two years later when she'd scored me a job here, we got to hanging out again, and in a mutually flirtatious discussion about our intimate dry spells, she admitted that she'd heard good things about my bedroom habits and regretted never having gotten to find out for herself. I'd laughed and told her that, at the time, I hadn't been in practice so I probably wouldn't have been all that talented anyway, so she flashed me an alluring smile and proposed I showed her them now. Since then, we've hooked up every so often, and since save for the short stints in dating we've both had with people that didn't end up being right for us, we've both been _very_ single for years, it's been ongoing. There hasn't really been a reason to stop.

And often, like I was back then, I'm still willing to fool around with her. But there are other days when it feels less rooted in lust and deprivation and more like an obligation. If I feel she's looking for a lay based on anger or revenge or—like today—jealousy, I don't particularly want to. However, if I feel like I can't give her a good reason not to, I do it anyway. I hate to say it, but she makes me feel like I'm stupid for denying her something that "every guy wants": sex with no strings attached. What she doesn't realize that she does put strings on it without meaning to—or maybe she does mean to. I hardly know anymore.

All I know is that the moment we reach the storage closet, she pushes me back against the eroded concrete wall and pulls the door shut behind us. I can't help but notice that she doesn't lock it, as if she wouldn't mind us getting caught in the act. Probably so that word would get around that we were doing this. "I'm getting some weird vibes here," I manage to say through her lips over mine while her hands fumble for my belt buckle, "Like you're trying to establish your dominance or something."

She releases a laugh into the rushed, broken kisses while my belt snakes out of its loops and clatters to the floor. "I thought you like it when I take control?"

I shake my head, just sort of letting my hands roam the curves of her sides as I try to decide what I want to do with them. "Not dominance over _me_," I look down at her.

She slows for a moment to find my eyes in the dim lighting. "Then over who?"

I raise my eyebrows.

She laughs incredulously. "Who, _Maya_?"

I purse my lips.

She scoffs, "_Please_, Zig! I have nothing to prove to _her_. She's a talentless gold-digger and an absolute airhead. Why on earth would I need to level with her enough to establish _dominance_?"

I release her hip to scratch the back of my neck. "I don't know. To prove that you're the alpha male—well, female?"

Leaning back a bit, her eyes darken, her lips turning up to let out a cold chuckle. "I don't need to _prove_ to Maya Matlin that I'm in charge here. I'm the one on the hit show. I'm the one in the closet with you right now. I've already won."

My jaw clenches. This is what I mean. _Strings._ "Don't use me for a power trip, Zoe."

"Why not?" She raises her eyebrows, "_You've_ used me to take out your feelings about her—"

"I have not—!"

"Yes you have." She shakes her head, "Just because it's a different kind of frustration doesn't mean you're any better for doing it than I am. So get off of your high horse and onto something that actually _wants_ you to give it a ride, and hint?" She unties the belt to her robe, pulling the sides of it open entirely to reveal the lack of clothing she was wearing underneath, "It's not the girl out _there_."

And what can I say? It's not an easy situation to just walk out of. I try to make it quick so we can resume our job without anyone noticing we'd been gone, but I think she's bent on making it last long enough to raise suspicions. It's times like this that have made me grow reluctant to sleep with her, since it used to just be a mutually beneficial way to "get some" since we weren't getting it anywhere else, but sometimes she turns it into something for her own personal agenda and it makes me feel filthy. Were it to spite something that I, too, was pissed off about, then sure, I guess I wouldn't mind. But it's very one-sided, and despite being sparsely-clothed and pressed up against her so that my entire body is enveloped by her warmth, it gets cold and lonely knowing that you're participating in what is supposed to be the most close and personal way to connect with someone, and yet, the person on the other end of it is on a completely different wavelength.

I won't pretend I don't enjoy it. Her body is great and she knows how to work it, as well as mine. But it's a mechanical process: we get into position, I set the pace, she sighs my name, we both keep it up for as long as we can until I can tell she's finished and I let myself join her, we move apart and I set her down to search for my clothes and a garbage can to throw the condom out in while she leans against the wall and basks in her afterglow. It's sex, and it feels good. I guess I just wish it was better.

"That was great," She hums as I refasten my pants.

I nod.

She lets out a small laugh. "How long were we in here?"

I shrug, "Maybe half an hour?"

"Damn. Think they heard us?"

"Maybe you."

"Oops." She chuckles, watching me get dressed. "Are you mad?"

"Why would I be?"

"Because you don't want Maya knowing we do this."

"You mean because _you want_ her to know we do this."

She shrugs, "Same difference."

I roll my eyes, picking up my backpack and reaching inside for the bottle, extending it to her. "Here."

She shakes her head. "Thanks but I'm good, actually. You took the edge off just fine." Leering, she peels herself up from the wall and makes her way to the door, cranking the knob and slipping out without another word.

As it closes, it echoes in the emptiness of the room. Within seconds, the silence is deafening. I try to tell myself not to dwell on this like I always do, but I can't help it. Zoe is one of the only friends I have and I can't paint her as a villain, but she just makes me so aware of how alone I feel all the time. I know that it's pathetic and stupid and that I'm a pussy for hating the fact that an attractive girl uses fucking me for her own devices, but it's unshakeable. I really didn't expect my life to go this way, I suppose.

I stay in here for a few more minutes, wanting to put some distance between the end of Zoe's vanishing act and my own resurfacing. I know that the studio workers have caught on by now, but Zoe's right. I don't want Maya knowing. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, it's just…even if nothing happens _between_ us, I'd still like a real shot at getting to know her again, and reintroducing myself to her by disappearing to sleep with another girl, Zoe Rivas or not, just isn't the way I wanted to do it.

I consider downing the Cognac myself since I didn't want it to go to waste, but it's already bad enough that I've been MIA all this time. It's one thing if a renowned actress leaves to get her rocks off and comes back with liquor on her breath, but I'm just the help. They could easily replace me. I'm disposable. So I just stuff it back in my bag, buried under my wallet and a spare change of clothes.

When I kick myself in the ass enough to lighten up on the self-loathing and actually head inside, I'm relieved to find they've taken Zoe in as one of the extras for the commercial. If they'd done so sooner, maybe she would have felt a bit more significant and wouldn't have needed my brand of reassurance, but that's beside the point.

"Hey, Zig!" I jump a bit as I hear Maya's voice behind me, turning to find her approaching with her shoes still in tow.

I melt my nerves enough to chuckle in response. "Hey!" I nod to the heels, "Are they your new pets or something? It's like you're taking them for a walk."

She looks to the pumps and laughs, holding them up and cupping their soles in her free hand. "Oh, no, they're just, uh…really high and I don't know how on earth I'm expected to walk in them," She scrunches up her nose.

"Still can't walk in heels, I see?" I tease.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head but remains smiling. "I can walk in _heels_ but these are just…stilts!" She knocks on them, "Look at them! I've trained myself to handle some height but this is ridiculous!"

"Did you tell them you can't walk in them?"

She nods, "Yeah, they said they'll try to have me just sitting or standing still for a lot of it. I told them for any motion shots, I can hold them in my hands like I'm a drunk girl at a club, but they aren't too keen on that idea. Something about making me look classy—though, if that's what they're going for, I don't know why they put me in this," She gestures to her outfit.

I laugh, unable to help myself from looking her over once more. The tight fit of the dress is more noticeable up close. "I guess they want you to look like you're partying but not too hard. Since it's for a charity event and all."

She shrugs. "I _guess_."

We fall into a conversational pause, her eyes drifting to the shoes she's turning over in her hand and mine to the floor as I try to think of how to keep her here without the silence rotting into awkward. "…So, ah...I think it's great that you're doing charity work, by the way! Giving back and all that. Music programs are important, I don't know why schools keep cutting them."

She shakes her head, "They want to focus more on the core subjects and athletics, so the arts have to suffer. It's not really just about funding music programs, though."

My mouth falls open a bit. "It's not? Oh, I um…I'm sorry, I was told..."

"No, don't worry about it, no one really knows what it's all about," A nervous chuckle escapes her, "The whole 'bachelorette party' is supposed to be a release event for it, so we haven't made the details really public yet. Just gave some hints."

"Oh, okay. Right, yeah, okay, yeah, that makes sense."

"Yeah, I hoped it would," She chuckles, pressing her lips together. "…Um…but I do have a layout for the website on my iPad if you want to see it? The site itself isn't up yet, but they send me pictures of the graphics and stuff to approve so it'll all be ready for next month."

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I don't want to get you in trouble for releasing classified information or something."

"Well…then it can be our little secret," She smiles gently before quickly adding, "If you want to see it, of course. If you're just trying to be really polite about not being interested in it at all, I understand."

I chuckle, "Just show me it, Matlin."

She beams. "Okay, c'mere." She turns to scurry off to the office she's using as a dressing room, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that I'm following (which, of course I am). As we pass through the threshold and she sets down her shoes to go through the Juicy Couture bag she has strung around the doorknob, I survey the room and how it's been altered to accommodate her. While it's definitely more comfortable than the stations our regular actors change behind, it isn't actually all that glamorous. It seems that all that's really been changed is that the desk and file cabinets have been taken out, a clothing rack and full-length mirror have been put in, and somebody used a label maker to stick her name on the front of the door.

"Here it is," She walks around me, tapping the screen of her tablet. "Like I said, keep it a secret for now. I know it'll all be public in a matter of weeks, but PR really wants it under wraps until then. They're all into shock value and whatnot."

"No worries, I won't tell anyone," I smile as she sets the iPad in my hands.

The webpage is primarily a seafoam color, kind of like a nailpolish she used to wear but a bit lighter, with glossy borders shaped like clouds. At the top is a bundle of balloons all being held together in a bow tied around a kazoo, one of the strings branching off into curly white letters that read "Campbell Saunders Outreach Organization".

My eyes widen, freezing on his name.

"We pronounce it like 'kazoo'," She points at the initialism in the corner, "Because when you pronounce the first letters altogether it kind of sounds like that. And every donor gets two kazoos shipped to them so they can keep one and give one to someone else. You know, spread the love."

"You made it about…" I trail off. I know she was sensitive about his name in the past, so I didn't know if I should say it or not. It's the title of her organization, but until she speaks it, I don't want to.

Her entire face drops and her eyes dart to me. "…Oh my God, I should have warned you, Zig, I'm so sorry, I didn't even think—"

"No, no, Maya, it's fine, I just…" I look up at her briefly before glancing back down at the page, reading the bold text in the first cloud bubble. **Our mission at CSOO is to bring various forms of help to those suffering from or affected by mental illness and suicide.** "…I just wasn't expecting this, I guess."

She watches me for a moment, weighing my reaction and pointing at the introductory paragraph about the cause. "Basically the money that gets raised goes to creating alternative forms of counseling for people. Like I have this whole…vision, I guess you could call it, that if enough gets raised, it funds participating schools so they can have, like…art therapy, music therapy, pet therapy…It doesn't have to just be schools, either. If it really takes off, I want it to be able to open up its own community centers so people of all ages can go in and relax while also getting a group or individual therapy setting, whatever they prefer." She shrugs, "The whole thing is about people who are going through hard times and wanting to get help, getting help that's tailored to what will help them. _So_ much counseling is standard. I learned that when I tried getting my own after…everything that happened. With this program, there's other options offered. Someone who might not do well just sitting in a room with a stranger and talking for an hour might actually get something out of hanging out with a bunch of people in a drum circle and…I don't know. Writing songs about their hardships, or painting together. Whatever they like to do. And if they try something and it doesn't work, they can go try something else within the same program so they don't have to worry about finding new places and insurance and all that."

When she pauses, I can tell she's waiting for me to say something, but I don't know what to say.

So she continues, "I know he wasn't really a musician or anything but I wanted to get the program started on something I can really be hands-on with, and music's all I really know—really, I want to get a branch for athletic therapy, too, but I wouldn't even know how to run that since I don't know anything other than soccer. Katie said she might get some of her old teammates to get in on it so we can think something up, and his parents said they can probably get someone from his team involved, too."

"You talk to his parents?"

She nods, "I started writing them at the end of high school. A little over a year ago I decided to go meet them. We had a lot to talk about. They're really nice people. They're supposed to come to the wedding, so maybe you'll meet them."

My features twitch a bit. "Ah…yeah, I don't know about that."

Her brows furrow and she looks over to me, "…You're not coming to my wedding?"

I look up at her, but the way her blue eyes tremble sinks my gaze immediately.

She hesitates for a moment. "…Never mind, we'll talk about it later. But yeah, I try to stay in contact with them. I definitely wouldn't have been able to open the organization without them, especially using his name."

"Right. That makes sense." I nod, "I think it's really awesome that you're doing this, you know."

Her lips return to a little smile which eases me up a bit. "Really?"

"Absolutely. I think you're going to help a lot of people," I mirror her expression, "It's really an amazing cause."

Her smile widens. "Thanks, Zig. That really means a lot. Man, how have I been going on without you all this time. You're like the best support system a girl could ask for."

I chuckle, "Eh, stuff happens. But you know I never go anywhere."

She gives a nod, "It's nice knowing you're always there to come home to."

I offer her a smile in return. For a moment, we just stay like this, smiling at each other. There's something to the way she looks me over that makes me think she's taking me in just as I'd done to her earlier today, evaluating what about me is the same. It's funny how I was so afraid of her thinking that I hadn't changed, and now I'm hoping that's just what she thinks.

After a few measures, she looks away and lets out a small sigh. "…I should probably get back inside. I'm sure they'll be filming soon."

I nod, "Yeah, probably."

"But…thank you. You know. For…this," She chuckles, "Whatever it was."

"Don't mention it. I'm always game for…this." I gesture between us, "Talking to you is always nice."

She nods, "It is. We, ah…we should catch up sometime, yeah?"

I nod as well, "Yeah. Yeah, definitely."

"Cool," She smiles, picking her shoes up once again and backing towards the door, "I'll…see you around the set?"

"I'm sure you will."

"Cool." And with that, she turned and made her way back into the real world.

* * *

**Shout-out to Lady Azura, Mellycici, and the lovely guest who commented on this story! You guys make me smile. Thank you for the positivity. (:**

**I can't tell if these chapters are getting longer because I have more to fill them with or if I'm just growing wordier the more I write these days (I'm actually notoriously wordy so this isn't new, I was just trying to avoid going overboard). Hope you guys are enjoying the story! Also, I know this has had minimal Zaya interaction thus far, but I promise more is on the way, haha.**

**xo, Kina**


	4. Chapter 4

For the past couple of years, I've made a habit out of utilizing my Sundays, the one day a week the studio is closed, as time for sleeping in late, catching up with Damon's family over a home-cooked breakfast, and then spending the day catching up on all of the chores I slack on while I'm working. It's not that big of a place and I try to do my share when I'm home, keeping up with dishes and taking out the garbage and making sure the living room at least _presentable_ when I'm gone, but I know that housework can build up when people aren't around to do it so I make it a point to be home and pitch in. It's not an impressive use of my spare time, but I know it's important and I hardly ever break the routine.

So naturally, I'm surprised to hear my ringtone go off at a quarter after eight in the morning, causing me to nearly roll off the couch when I startle awake. My eyes are barely open when I blindly feel around the coffee table, closing my fingers around my phone and bringing it to my ear without looking at the ID. I just assume it's Zoe (because who else think to call me right now, really) and muster up a groggy "What."

There's a small pause. "_…Hey, Zig_?"

My eyes shoot open when I register the voice on the other end. "Maya!"

She lets out a nervous laugh. "_Uh…yeah, hi…I got your number from Zoe yesterday, I, um…I hope that isn't too weird…?_"

I shake my head even though she can't see it, "No, no, it's fine, you're fine! What, ah…what's going on? Everything alright?"

"_Yeah, yeah, everything's fine! It's just, uh…_" A bit more hesitation where I can hear her drawing in a bit of breath to prelude a sentence but her words get caught in her mouth before she can say them. I let her take her moments before she finally finds how she wants to say what she's trying to say. "_…Yeah, so…this is totally stupid and I don't know how I even managed to do it—and feel free to laugh at me because it's ridiculous, like I'm an idiot._"

I chuckle, "You're not an idiot, I won't laugh."

"_You just did!_"

"You know what I mean!"

"_I do, I know, I'm playing, sorry, um…_" I think I can hear her pacing on the other end, _"…So I guess…I didn't realize today was Sunday or something? I don't know what I did, but I managed to not realize that there wasn't any filming today so I had Miles drop me off like an hour ago, and I've just been waiting for someone to come and unlock the door, but I just looked at my phone and saw what day it was and I was like, wow, okay, I'm dumb._"

"Wait, you're at the studio?"

"_Yeah, but just outside._"

"By yourself?"

"_Well, yes. And I've been trying to call Miles but he's not answering his phone or texts or anything._"

I furrow my brows, "That's kind of messed up."

"_He's probably doing something. Like I'm guessing he made plans, knowing I was here. I don't know, he's probably busy._"

"He shouldn't be too busy to answer your calls."

"_He usually does, this isn't a typical thing, um…but yeah, so I'm…I'm here, and no one else is here, and I don't have a car because, like I said, Miles dropped me off, and…yeah…_"

"…You're asking me to pick you up?"

"…_I'm sorry, you totally don't have to if you can't, I know this is really last-minute and early and weird because we haven't seen each other all that much lately and—_"

"No, stop, it's fine," I chuckle softly, "I don't mind at all."

"_Really? I mean, I'll pay for gas money and everything, too, since it's inconvenient and out of the way—_"

"Maya, stop, it's fine," I sit up, scrubbing a hand over my face, "Just…give me a few to get my shoes on and stuff and I'll be right there, yeah?"

"_Yeah, totally, of course!_"

"Okay…okay, cool, yeah, so I'll…see you in a few?"

"_Yeah, definitely! I'll, uh…I'll be here._"

"Cool," I smile, "I'll see you then." When we hang up, I bolt for Damon's room, flicking on his light and delving into our pooled pile of overdue laundry to locate something that can pass for clean.

He grumbles as he stirs, pulling his comforter over his face and turning towards the wall. "What the hell?"

"Sorry, Maya called. I need to get dressed."

"Maya?" He gurgles through his fatigue.

"Yeah, she's at the studio. She needs a ride." Every pair of pants I'm finding has either sawdust or paint stains, or has just been worn so many times in the past two weeks that I know they can't exactly pass for _fresh_. "Do clothes today, okay? We have more dirty than clean."

"Wait, _Maya_? Like Maya Matlin?" he shifts to peek at me slightly through half-mast eyes, hooded by his blanket.

I nod, digging deeper into the closet to dip into summer clothes. "Yeah, Maya Matlin. She needs a ride."

"Since when are you and Maya Matlin talking again?"

"We're not exactly _talking_. I mean, we're not _not_ talking." I pull out a pair of black cutoffs with frayed edges, throwing them over my shoulder. "She came into the studio yesterday. She's shooting a commercial there."

"A commercial?"

"Yeah, for a charity thing." I sift through all of the sleeveless black shirts I've owned for years, trying to find one that's recent enough to at least be new to her. "She got dropped off and she didn't know it was closed today so she needs a ride."

"So you're giving her a ride."

"Yeah, it's not that complicated," I find a grey tank top a local band gave me as thanks for helping move their equipment when their roadie was sick. It was only a year ago, so there's no way it could look like something I've had a while. I fold it over my arm as I make a mental note to nab some body spray on the way out since it smells kind of musty.

"How isn't it complicated?" He blinks lazily, squinting in my direction, "You're gonna go pick up this girl you've been obsessing over since high school that's on TV shows you're always watching, talking about her wedding to another guy."

"So?" I shoot him a look as I turn a pair of boxers that I think I've worn already inside-out.

"_So_," He laughs, sitting up slightly, "You two are gonna be alone together. She's gonna be on your bike, with her arms wrapped around your waist, all up on you while you're driving her around."

"Uh-huh."

"Probably feeling up on all your muscles, holding herself all tight to you like, _ooh, Zig, I never realized how _buff_ you are_—"

"I don't get what you're driving at."

"You don't think that's gonna be weird?" He quirks a brow, "Having her cling to you—having to make small talk."

"My bike is loud. That's not an issue."

"But what about red lights? And before she gets on the bike? You're not just gonna show up and be like 'get on' and then drop her off without saying a word. You'll have to chat her up."

"So I'll chat her up." I state flatly as I slip out of my sleep pants and into my street clothes.

"And you think it's _not_ gonna be weird."

"No."

"What if she asks you about what you've been up to?"

"Then I'll tell her."

"And if she asks about Zoe?"

"I'll tell her that, too."

"What if she gets all jealous and pissed off that you've been nailing her enemy?"

"They're not _enemies_ and she won't."

"But what if she _does_?"

"Then I'll tell her she has no reason to be mad at me since she's engaged."

"And if she gets pissed about that—"

"Damon, I don't have time for this, she's waiting." I say as I grab a pair of his socks that were probably rolled by his mom, leaning against the wall to tug them on. "I'm taking your helmet, okay?"

"Okay," He turns to lie on his back, "But one more question."

I groan, "_What._"

"What if you get a boner when she puts her arms around you?" He grins.

I roll my eyes, grabbing the pants I'd slept in and throwing them at him, hitting him square in the face.

He laughs, batting them away, "Get out of here!"

"I'm trying to, ya' dingus." I hit the light-switch back to off and grab for the doorknob, "Tell your mom I'll pick up dessert. I feel bad missing breakfast."

"I'm sure she'll understand, but yeah, she'll like that. She's been talking about this strawberry cheesecake they made on one of her cooking shows."

"Call up that Italian bakery she likes and order one under my name, yeah?"

"Sure," He says, turning back onto his side to resume his typical sleeping position.

"Before they get busy."

"Right."

"It's Sunday. They get busy on Sundays—"

"Yeah, yeah, go already. Maya _needs you to give her a ride_."

I roll my eyes, "Ass." Closing the door behind myself, I head into the kitchen to grab my jacket from its usual kitchen chair, making a pit stop in the garage to grab Damon's helmet and quickly mist down with some AXE before heading outside.

The drive isn't nearly as packed as it was yesterday, but there is still a fair amount of congestion on the streets as people who apparently don't know the filming schedule attempt to sneak into the studio. Luckily, the police were informed of the mass of paparazzi traffic, so they kept some officers near the studio exit with a few road barriers to ensure non-authorized personnel didn't clog the parking lot. I wait my turn as car by car gets turned away, helmet between my legs and fleeting thoughts I'm attempting to avoid between my ears. I'm trying not to let Damon's points get to me, but I can't help but find some validity to them. This would be, after all, the first time I'd be seeing her, one-on-one, in years. No tasks at hand, no other people around. Just me and Maya Matlin and years separating us from our last casual conversation. As much as I tried to pass it off as nothing, it was intimidating. The boner was even a legitimate fear.

The guards inspect my work ID and nod, moving the barricades aside to let me through before instantly setting them back so the car behind me couldn't piggyback me. The lot is basically empty, so it's not hard to head straight up the aisles and round the building's entrance.

I can feel a soft flutter in my gut when I spot her there, leaning up against one of the pillars of the covered walkway. She has her hair in the same arrangement of curls but with the braid exchanged for a thin black barrette, and beneath her long hound's-tooth coat, belted at the waist, I can her slender legs peeking out, clad in dark wash jeans.

"Good thing you wore pants today, huh?" I laugh as I slow down the bike to approach her, watching her turn and smile as she spots me.

"What?" She peels herself away from the column and strides down the footpath, hands tucked in her coat pockets.

"I was afraid you'd wear one of your dresses," I hoist the helmet from my lap and offer it to her, "Skirts and motorcycles don't always work well together."

"Oh," She chuckles, taking it, "Yeah, I almost did, but it's kind of chilly out. I don't know how you're wearing shorts."

"Eh," I shrug, playing it off as if the wind whipping at the bare skin of my calves hasn't numbed them or anything. "It's already March. It's not too bad."

"It's March in _Toronto._" She raises her eyebrows, securing the helmet over her head, "It's pretty bad."

"Well, yeah, to someone who just spent three weeks in Gustavia, I'm sure it is pretty bad."

She raises her eyebrows.

I shrug, "I…sometimes like to watch the shows you're on and stuff. Know what you're up to."

Her features soften. "That's sweet."

"Yeah, yeah," I nod behind myself, "Hop on."

She smiles, touching my shoulder and carefully maneuvering herself to situate behind me, "So where are we headed, anyway?"

I glance at her through a side mirror. "I'm taking you home, right?"

"Oh, I mean, yeah, at some point. But I thought, since you said I couldn't give you gas money, maybe I could pay you back by treating you to lunch?"

I feel my nerves simmer a bit. It was one thing to have to make enough conversation to maintain a simple ride to her house, but sitting down for a meal together would mean a _lot_ more talking, not to mention time sitting with her, face-to-face, trying to mask the fact that my pulse still accelerates just by having her around. We could run out of things to talk about so quickly, and I could easily slip up and say something stupid or mess something up and ruin everything so soon after having her back in my life.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," I wave her off.

"But I want to!" She smiles. And how can I say no to that?

"…Sure. Okay, yeah. We can do lunch," I nod, watching the reflection of her whole face lighting up.

"Really?"

"Yeah, why not. But nothing too expensive or else I'm not letting you pay for me."

She laughs gently, "Doable. Very doable. I was thinking something simple, anyway. I've had enough French food in the past month to set me for life, so I'd kill for just, like, a panini or something."

"See, here's how I know you've been fancy-fied. You say 'panini' when you very well could just say 'sandwich'."

"Don't be a jerk!" She gives my arm a gentle shove, "You act like they're just the same thing."

"A panini is a sandwich!"

"It's a _type_ of sandwich. Sandwiches aren't _always_ paninis. I'm saying I specifically want a panini, not just any sandwich, now are we going to sit here and argue about this all day or are we going to go somewhere?"

I laugh, "I'm sorry but I don't know many places offhand that sell _paninis_."

"I think The Dot does, doesn't it?" She shrugs, "We could always go there. I haven't been in years."

I can feel a small smile turn up at the corners of my mouth. "…Well, that would certainly take us full circle." I glance back at her, weighing whether or not she remembers.

The downcast eyes and crooked smile I'm met with tells me that she does. "Yeah…I suppose it would."

Nodding, I turn and straighten my posture, reinforcing my grip on the bike handles. "Alright, hold on, then." When she gingerly places her hands on my sides, I can't help but laugh and glance over my shoulder. "Maya, you can't expect _that_ to be the only thing keeping you from flying off this thing once it takes off."

"Forgive me, I've never been on a motorcycle before," She crinkles her nose, scooting in a bit closer and cautiously wrapping her arms around my waist. When she registers no complaints from me, she locks in, clasping her hands together and laying her head against the back of my shoulder. I swallow thickly and rev the engine, unable to keep from worrying about Damon's prophecy coming true.

I manage to convince myself that the only reason it would happen is mind over matter, fearing it enough that I psych myself into actually making it happen, but any sensations below the belt gained from the vibrations of the bike reverberating through Maya's hold on my waist were outranked by the knowledge that Damon would never let me live it down, so we arrived at The Dot without my pants getting any tighter—a blessing, since I'm positive that Maya would be able to feel an issue like that.

The rawness of the air nips at me as she unravels her arms from my middle, leaving me exposed at the lack of heat. I keep a hand out for her to hold for balance as she climbs down from the seat, reaching to pull off her helmet. "Well, that was invigorating. Is my hair a mess?"

I take my own off and run my fingers through the front of my hair. "Your hair's never a mess."

"That's a complete lie," She smirks a bit, fussing with the ends of her curls, "No, but seriously, how bad is it?"

I shake my head. "You look perfect. Like always."

Her lips pinch into a little smile, and I think I can see a small sense of pink blossoming in her cheekbones, but that could also just be the weather. "Come on. It's cold out here."

We set out over the sidewalk and I hold the door open for her, smiling as she thanks me and following behind. There's a warmth that envelopes the room, both a sheathe from the early spring atmosphere and a nostalgic film reel as I remember walking this same floor nearly six years ago as I awaited the company of the same girl I'm arriving with now, only back then she was even smaller and I hardly knew more than her name. I can still remember turning to see her walking through this very door, a head of loose blonde curls framing her fresh face, blue eyes somewhat shy behind her wire-framed glasses.

I can't help but mull over how things have changed when I look at her now, from the way she carries herself to the vast difference in my perception of her. It's funny how knowing a person so much can change the way they enchant you, but keep you enchanted nonetheless.

"What are you smiling about?"

I raise my eyebrows and look over at her. "Huh?"

She's eyeing me curiously, fingers still toying with her highlighted locks. "You just got all smiley all of a sudden."

"Oh, ah," I force a laugh, giving a wave of my hand as my cheeks take a turn at burning red. "Nothing. Just...this place hasn't changed. It's cool."

"Right? It's like stepping into ninth grade all over again. Only it's way less packed than I remember."

I nod, "I guess no one really comes here on Sunday mornings."

"I guess," She gestures towards a table, leading me to sit with her. We both take off our jackets to revel in the indoor heating. She's wearing a cropped shirt with a pair of those high-waisted jeans all of the girls have these days, leaving a few inches of her upper midriff exposed, but my eyes can't help but wander to the sheerness of her mint green top. I'm not sure if informing her that her black bra is very visible through it would make me a good friend for looking out for her or a pig for looking at all, but I'm guessing it's the latter so I keep it to myself.

As she strings her purse around the corner of the chair, I scan the lunch menu. "What do you know? They do have paninis."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't make fun of me. They're delicious."

"I mean, they sound delicious, they just sound so _snooty_," The bridge of my nose creases.

"They do not!" She points to one of the items, "See, look. Avocado and sun-dried tomato with brie and basil on ciabatta bread. You mean to tell me that doesn't sound good?"

"It just sounds so prestigious," I shrug. "It's a fancy people sandwich."

"Okay, I don't know who put it in your head that I'm fancy all of a sudden, but my sandwich preferences don't allude to some major personality switch, you know."

"I don't know, Maya, some people like good old-fashioned peanut butter and jelly."

"I like peanut butter and jelly!"

"You like _paninis_."

"Shut up, I can like both!"

"Oh yeah?" I sit back in my chair, "And when was the last time you had one?"

She narrows her eyes. She's smiling still, but her eyes have definitely narrowed. And as a dark-haired boy that I remember schooling with our freshman year approaches the table with a notepad, she keeps her sly expression fixated on me when he asks for her order. "Yes, I'll just have a peanut butter and jelly, please."

I laugh, shaking my head, "She's kidding. She wants that avocado panini thing with the brie."

"No, no, I'm good with the peanut butter and jelly, thanks. Wouldn't want anyone thinking I'm _fancy_ or anything."

I shake my head, stifling a laugh. "Don't listen to her, she wants the panini."

The waiter raises his eyebrows, "Look, I don't particularly care who wants what or what makes someone fancy or what doesn't. It's Sunday morning and I've got a kid at home so I'm not running on too much sleep, so if you two could just make up your minds so I can do my job, that would be _fantastic._"

Maya pinches her lips and raises her eyebrows, sending me a glance of a stunted smile and looking back to him. "I'll have both, then. Compromise."

"Fair enough," He nods, looking to me.

"Ah..." I scan the menu and shrug, "Yeah, I'll just have the same thing."

"Excellent. And to drink?"

"Oh, I'm good with water, thanks."

She nods, "Me, too. Oh, but can I get a bag of ketchup chips, too, please?"

"You got it." He scrawls down our orders and turns to head back to the kitchen.

Maya watches him, probably to make sure that he's out of earshot so she can turn and laugh to me, but when she glances back she raises her eyebrows. "What?"

I do the same. "What, what?"

"You're all smiley again."

I shrug. "It's nice to know some things haven't changed, I guess."

Maintaining conversation isn't as awkward as I'd feared. In fact, midway through a conversation about how Maya could tell Zoe wasn't actually all that happy to see her, I can't help but notice that there really wasn't much weirdness at all. There's an obvious gap between the way we talked then and the way we do now, but throughout the meal, it becomes less of an elephant in the room and more of a conversation piece; unimportant differences like how we spend vacations and how we treat our social media aren't so much obstacles as they are games of compare-and-contrast. She's still the same Maya, and I start to think it's actually not all that terrible for her to think that I'm still the same Zig.

Midway through a discussion about how we shop for special occasion outfits (I rent suits, she gets offers from indie designers for free custom gowns), she sets down her half-eaten PB&amp;J and brushes her fingers on her napkin. "So are you really not coming to my wedding?"

My stomach pauses all digestion and I have to force myself to swallow the food in my mouth. "Huh?"

"My wedding. You seem like you're not going." She shrugs a bit, setting her hands in her lap, "Why?"

A series of blinks draw my eyes to and from her, settling on that strip of skin where her jeans end and her blouse begins, all too inviting for just a few inches of abdomen. "...I-I don't know. It just...doesn't seem like my place."

"That's stupid. I want you there. That makes it your place."

"I don't know, Maya," I shrug. "It's not like I was invited, anyway."

"Yes you were," Her eyebrows stitch together.

I shake my head, "Never got an invite."

"You so did!" She seems appalled that I'm even saying this. "I sent you one—two, actually. I sent one to your parents' house in case you'd moved back there."

"Nah, I'm still living with Damon."

"Yeah, I know, that's where I sent the first one. I sent him one, too!" She leans a bit forward, folding her arms on the table. "You guys didn't get them?"

Again, I shake my head.

Her eyes search the floor. "...Huh...I'll talk to my planner about that, that doesn't seem right...either way, yeah, you're both invited. You should go."

"I don't know—"

"I _want_ you there." I can feel her eyes on me, so I glance up to match her gaze. The eye contact is stiffening, striking my spine into alignment and making me sit up straight.

"I'll, uh...I'll see what my schedule's like, okay?"

She nods, "Okay..." This assuages her features for a moment before I can see her eyes trailing behind me, widening. "...Oh, crap."

I blink, turning to see what she's looking at before feeling my own face fall.

The entrance bells chime as the door is thrown open, a dark-haired familiar face donning a blue gingham button-down and a pissed-off expression gripping its handle. He's maybe a few inches taller than the last time I saw him, his hair grown out a bit and pushed back, which is an improvement since his haircut used to be an expensive imitation of my own. The past few years have definitely aged his sunken features, but he still looks as douchey as ever.

His eyes are dark as they scan the room, zeroing in on our table. I turn my head sharply away from his line of vision, but I can tell from the sound of his brown leather Sperrys marching towards us that we've been spotted as a unit.

My ears get hot as he approaches, his hands splaying at the edge of our table top. "So this is where you've been all day? With _him_?"

Maya's lips part only to not know what to say. "...Miles, I—"

"You know, when I saw you weren't home this morning, I figured you were getting breakfast or getting your nails done or something. This is the _last_ thing I expected to see you doing."

I put a hand up, "Whoa, wait, didn't you drop her off at the studio?"

He turns to me with a cocked brow. "No, why would I do that? It's not open on Sundays. Why, is that where she was?"

"...I..." It's obvious that something isn't right, but I don't want to get Maya in any trouble.

When she catches on that I'm keeping quiet, she intercepts. "...Yeah, I was there...I guess I didn't believe you so I wanted to make sure for myself that there wasn't any filming."

"You _didn't believe me._" He says flatly.

She shrugs. "Yeah. You've been wrong about things. Plus, you know me. I'm stubborn. If I believe I'm right,_ I believe I'm right."_

I nod, because that's not false, but I don't say anything otherwise.

He studies the two of us skeptically, piecing together the story before leaning back on the soles of his shoes. "Alright, that's all well and good, I suppose, but how does you being stubborn and going to the studio lead to you going to The Dot with your ex?"

Maya raises a finger, "Okay, _first of all_, he's not my _ex. _We never _dated_." This stings a bit, but its not incorrect. "And we _got here_ because Zig picked me up."

"You couldn't drive yourself home?"

"I took a taxi! I didn't feel like driving at 8 AM, sue me!" She folds her arms over her chest, "So Zig picked me up and I thought I'd thank him by treating him to lunch since _someone _didn't answer my five million _calls_ this morning."

He raises his eyebrows, gesturing to himself, "You don't mean me, do you? Because I've been trying to call you all day and you didn't pick up _once_. I had no idea where you were! I had to be told by strangers on _Twitter_ that you were spotted here with some _mystery guy_!"

"I didn't get any calls from you!" She huffs, waving to me, "Ask Zig!"

I pinch my lips together, "...I mean, it's true, her phone hasn't gone off this whole time."

"And if you don't believe that, then check it!" She nods to her iPhone, sitting on the table by her empty chip bag.

Miles eyes her and the phone before picking it up, scanning it over for irrefutable evidence against her. I try not to be smug in knowing he won't find any until I see his features tense. "It's on airplane mode."

Maya raises an eyebrow, "What?"

"Your phone," He holds the screen to face her, "It's on airplane mode. You can't make or receive any calls or texts. It pretty much blocks you from all communication."

Her visage is screwed up with confusion as she takes the device back from him and looks it over herself. "...Oh, I...I guess I never switched that off when we got back from Gustavia..." She looks up at Miles, who doesn't look like he buys it.

"If that's the case, then how'd you contact _him_?" He points to me.

I can feel my eyes widen, and when I look over to Maya, I can see that hers have as well. It's then that I realize that all of this is way more suspicious than I'd previously thought, and the look of panic on her face clues me in that this is a major hole in some big plan she'd been fabricating.

Thinking on my toes, I stammer over an excuse. "...Well, ah, I-I...I was already there, actually. She didn't call me or anything, I just...ran into her and she told me what was up, so I offered her a ride." I glance over at Maya, hoping that all the times I've sat in on improv circles at work have paid off.

She shows an ounce of relief but we're both clearly more concerned with Miles poking holes in the alibi—which, of course, he does. "And what were _you_ doing there on a Sunday? You work there. You knew it wasn't open."

I can see Maya's jaw clench, but I manage to come up with something quickly. "I...left something there."

"Something."

"Yeah..." I glance over to my Harley through the store window, then back to him. "...My helmet."

"You left your helmet at the studio."

"Yeah, we got out late, I was tired, I didn't think—I don't recommend it, helmets are really important, but I mean, hey, sometimes people forget to wear protection." I laugh, trying to lighten the air. It remains tense, though, so I clear my throat and continue, "So...yeah, I wore my roommate's on my way there to go pick it up, saw Maya locked outside, and...yeah, the rest is like she told it."

I look between the two of them, and they look between each other and myself.

I don't want to let the silence stew because that's where Miles seems to find his ammo. "...Worked out well, really, because the both of us had helmets. I mean, if it was just her, I would've let her wear mine, anyway, of course, but yeah." I give myself bonus points for addressing the issue before anyone else found it coincidental.

There's a small flash of defeat in Miles's eyes. It doesn't alleviate all of his suspicions, but it's enough to unlock his jaw. "Alright, well...if that's how it really went down...I appreciate you looking out for my fiancé, Zig. I'd hate for something to have happened with her being stranded out there. So thank you."

I nod, "Anytime."

"You, however," He turns to Maya, "You need to be more careful."

She rolls her eyes, "It was an accident."

"Accident or not, do you know how irresponsible that was?" His upper lip furled, "You were cut off from the world and you didn't even _realize _it."

"Miles, chill, it's not like I did it on purpose," She matches his bitter expression.

"What if there was an emergency, Maya? Huh?" He puckers his further, "What if I needed you?"

"Seriously, stop—"

"What if _your mom_ needed you?"

This sends a pang of guilt straight through Maya's face, widening her blue eyes and sending them down to the floor. I can't even fully emote the disgust I feel as I see a sense of satisfaction play out over Miles's features, knowing he'd trapped her with that point; I'm too busy examining Maya. Her mother, who's afflicted with multiple sclerosis, had been a sore subject for her since our senior year of high school; Maya had been out with friends, Katie was away at college, and their father was at work when Mrs. Matlin, who had been recently trying to transition from primarily using her wheelchair to walking with forearm support crutches, slipped on a water spill in the kitchen and hit her head on the counter. It was estimated that she'd been unconscious for a little over two hours when Maya came home and found her on the floor. The woman was rushed to the hospital and stayed in critical care for weeks, and apparently things weren't looking too good, so Miles, who wasn't even dating Maya at the time, went to his parents and the family donated enough money to get Mrs. Matlin all of the aid she needed to make the best possible recovery. Since then, the woman has been in better condition, but Maya (who had resumed dating Miles not too long after that, unsurprisingly) still carries the worry that something else could happen when she wasn't around—which is understandable. The worst things seem to happen to the people in Maya's life when she lets her guard down.

Setting her hands back into her lap, she quietly clears her throat. "...You're right...I'm sorry..."

He nodded, "It's alright, I just...I worry, you know?"

"I know." Her voice is barely above a murmur. I've gone so quiet I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

After a few moments' silence, Miles, who had been side-eyeing me for the past few minutes, leans back and glances at the black and gold Rolex watch he kept beneath his half-folded sleeve. "...Well, it's getting kind of late. We have a meeting with the photographer at 4 and our wine tasting at 6. I figured you'd want to get changed."

She nods, turning to unwind her purse strap from her chair.

I shake my head before she can even fish out her wallet, "No, no, it's okay, I've got it."

"I told you I'd pay," Her attempted smile is weak.

"It's fine, really."

"No, but I said—"

"Hey, I'll solve this real quick," Miles interjects, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a patent leather wallet that matches his shoes. "I'll pay."

I try to object but he shoves right under my plate and buries the wallet back into his Chinos, so I have to do so after the fact. "This is _way _more than we'd need."

"Consider it a thank you for looking out for my fiancé, yeah?" There's a greasiness to the way he says this and claps a hand to my shoulder, turning to Maya and raising the eyebrows on his smug little face. "You ready?"

She nods, standing up and threading her purse strap over her shoulder. "It was really nice hanging with you, Zig. I'll, ah...see you tomorrow?"

I offer a smile, "Absolutely. Let me know if you ever need a ride again—you know, if you have you don't have airplane mode on." I tease.

There's a small smirk to her returning smile and she nods, but she manages to lose it before she turns to Miles. The two of them bid me another goodbye before heading out to a model Porsche that won't even be available to the public until next year. I watch as he presses a button on his keys that raises the butterfly doors, ushers Maya into her side as he slips on a pair of sunglasses that are definitely way more expensive than they look, rounds the front to take to the driver's side, and speeds away, leaving only my ratty black bike with its two helmets.

* * *

**Man oh _man_ did it take me forever to complete this chapter. I apologize for having been constantly updating this story and then suddenly stopping; my old laptop, Holly J., contracted some nasty viruses that wiped out all of my text documents and turned them into jarbled and/or Chinese characters. I'd kept the original draft of this chapter on it and therefor lost it, and I don't know about you guys, but I find it _extremely difficult_ to find the muse to rewrite a chapter I've already written with satisfactory results. But I finally buckled down to crank it out and I think it actually turned out better than the original, so I hope you all like it! And again, thank you all so much for the positive feedback. It fuels me and makes me smile. (:**

**xo, Kina**


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